Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  He was far less optimistic about the second hurricane. With sustained winds already topping 111 miles an hour, Fernando was predicted to increase in strength and size. The outer cloud bands already extended 350 miles from the eye. Its path was less certain, with forecast models sending it all over the map. There was the potential for a strike to the east coast of Florida. He would have to keep an eye on this storm.

  Minutes later, Kay came downstairs with Cody. The boy was still partially asleep and rubbing his eyes. After breakfast they loaded the luggage in the car, and left for the airport.

  Kay’s sister, Holly, had recently been promoted to operations manager of the Banes Lloyd Resort in Santa Barbara, California. Holly had offered to comp the Marks family for a four-day stay. Unfortunately for Scott, his job as a financial analyst had interfered. After much coaxing, he successfully convinced Kay to take Cody and go. It was his son’s last week of summer before he began kindergarten.

  Once they arrived at the airport, Scott escorted them as far as he could down the concourse. Kay gave Scott a passionate, loving kiss goodbye, which was immediately followed by a wet kiss and bear hug from Cody.

  “I think you should skip the conference speeches on Tuesday and Thursday and come with us,” Kay said with a mild pout.

  “So do I, but my boss might not like it.”

  “All right, then. Be careful,” Kay whispered out of Cody’s earshot.

  “Careful?”

  “Don’t forget, you and Marvin were there in the Castillo with Curt when they opened the room.”

  “Has my wife turned superstitious?” Scott asked with a smile.

  She frowned.

  He felt guilty for teasing her. He knew the third accidental death Saturday night had unnerved her. “Look, these deaths are merely coincidental,” he said, attempting to mollify her.

  “Some coincidence,” she said.

  Kay was right. The odds against three people in attendance at the opening of the gunpowder magazine subsequently suffering accidental deaths within a six-week span were astronomical, but he was not going to worry her. “I’ll give you a call later.” He looked down at Cody. “Be good for Mom.”

  Scott waved goodbye as Kay and Cody entered the Jacksonville International Airport security checkpoint. He remained in the concourse, watching out the window until he saw Kay and Cody’s plane take off at 9:19.

  ****

  At the same time the Marks were saying their goodbyes at the airport, Curt sat in a monastic city hall conference room joking with Harvey Shottier, Renee Chaps, and Bethel Washington.

  A few minutes before nine o’clock, there was a firm knock on the door. Shottier rose and answered it, escorting a woman inside. She was facing away from Curt as she shook the hands of Chaps and Washington at the far end of the table.

  From the back, Curt could not help but admire the way in which the woman’s form fit the green business suit, set off by her strikingly beautiful tresses of long red hair. She moved with grace and professionalism, and he was suddenly anxious for the chance to introduce himself. City officials had not told Curt the name of the person, only that he would be retained as an historical resource to support the initiative and lend his expertise when called upon.

  The job suddenly had a tremendous upside.

  When she turned, he felt the upside tumble. An almost indiscernible, fleeting grimace flashed on the face of Sherri Falco as she laid her green eyes upon him. Then her expression softened, and she walked over to Curt and extended her hand.

  Harvey Shottier spoke first. “Sherri Falco, this is our resident historical expert and archeologist, Curt—”

  “We’ve met,” Curt cut him off with a Cheshire-cat grin. “Little baggage mix-up at the airport yesterday. Small world, Mrs. Falco,” he shook her hand brusquely. Then he spoke in a whisper so only she could hear. “I lied yesterday. I did try on some of your clothes.”

  She turned to the others in the room. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.” Then she turned back to Curt and offered a disarming smile.

  Involuntarily, he felt his contempt wane.

  “Let’s please get started,” Harvey Shottier, the St. Augustine City Commission Manager said. He was a bald man in his mid-sixties with a high forehead and a bulging paunch. “I apologize, Ms. Falco, but we’re going to have to cut this meeting to thirty minutes due to an urgent matter which has arisen and must be dealt with immediately.”

  Everyone took a seat. Curt made sure he sat to Sherri Falco’s immediate left. He was still irritated by their two interactions yesterday and was reluctant to let it go so easily, even if she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

  “We understand from your president, Lincoln Mosset, you’ve been fully briefed. Have you had an opportunity to read the dossier we provided?”

  “Yes, in detail,” Sherri responded with an effervescent smile.

  “This meeting is simply a preliminary discussion to lay the groundwork. I wanted you to meet Renee Chaps, who will assist me in these efforts, and Bethel Washington, a resident of St. Augustine who manages the Fountain of Youth Archaeological Park. Curt Lohan, whom you’ve already met, will be at your disposal as a subject matter expert.”

  “As long as you don’t take my luggage,” Curt whispered in her ear. He meant for the words to be venomous, but her smile had dissolved him. Instead, he sounded almost self-deprecating.

  To her credit, Sherri Falco’s visage remained unchanged.

  Chaps, an impeccably dressed woman in her mid-forties, who kept her long brunette hair in a perpetual knot atop her head, added, “Knowing what you know now, Ms. Falco, what are the Mosset firm’s initial thoughts?”

  “Well,” Sherri began, “it’s too early to form a definitive strategy, but I can give you my opinion.”

  “Please do,” Bethel Washington, the early forties African American said. She was a painfully thin woman who sat with perfect posture. Her straightforward demeanor signified that she managed people at the Fountain of Youth Archaeological Park with an iron will.

  “That’s all we’re looking for,” Shottier added with a smile that was a touch too eager. Curt knew the widower was also taken with Sherri’s looks.

  Sherri continued, “Melbourne has a legitimate case. Juan Ponce de Leon’s navigational records suggest it’s extremely unlikely that he landed in St. Augustine.”

  Washington chimed in. “St. Augustine has built most of its reputation around the fact Juan Ponce de León landed here first. You can’t go anywhere in this town without seeing streets, restaurants, and hotels named after him. He’s the very crux of the Fountain of Youth Archaeological Park I manage. We even have a statue of Juan Ponce de León in the park.”

  “So what do we do?” Chaps added excitedly.

  “Frankly I don’t think any action is necessary.”

  “Nothing?” Harvey asked.

  “Correct. I haven’t had time to analyze all angles and crunch the numbers, but St. Augustine is a well-established and very, very profitable tourist destination. The fact that Ponce de León may or may not have landed here in 1513 is a moot point. It’s long-accepted as history. Frankly, Melbourne is the one with the uphill struggle, since changing perceived history is not an easy task. It could take decades, and even then, St. Augustine is known for so much more, including being the longest continual European settlement in the United States. The heart of St. Augustine still has the distinctive look of an early colonial town, and many of the buildings retain their original architecture of the 1700s and 1800s. Can Melbourne offer the same?”

  “Are you saying we’ve overestimated the threat to our tourism? That we’re overreacting?” Chaps asked.

  “I’m saying the threat, if it truly exists, is neither great nor imminent.”

  “Then what are we doing here?” Washington cried in mock dramatic fashion, waving her wispy arms. “
You don’t think we should be concerned that Melbourne city officials are seizing the opportunity to create some Juan Ponce de León commercialism of their own and are preparing to build attractions and launch an extensive ad campaign to lure tourists to their coastal community? Their promotion will denounce St. Augustine’s claim as Juan Ponce de Leon’s landing site. They’re basically calling us liars!”

  “Trying to fight Melbourne’s argument head-on based on historical data, in my opinion, could do more to damage St. Augustine’s reputation than any potential benefit which may be achieved.” Sherri continued, speaking in a controlled tone. “Again, I must reiterate that we haven’t looked at the financials. I’m waiting on information from our home office that will project the revenue stream Melbourne may draw and, more importantly, St. Augustine may lose, as a direct result. Until we understand the full impact, we shouldn’t react. Let’s wait on the numbers.”

  “For the sake of this discussion, let’s say the impact is...unacceptable,” Shottier said. “What would you suggest then?”

  “We’d implement a strategy that would not directly confront Melbourne or even acknowledge the city’s claim for that matter. By acknowledging the competition, you provide them free publicity. Instead, we’d implement an advertising technique known as “circling” which completely ignores anything Melbourne does. Instead, we’d leverage some other aspect of St. Augustine that has absolutely nothing to do with Ponce’s landing.

  “Just out of curiosity, I heard about the unusual events at the Castillo de San Marcos last month where the man emerged from the sealed room. Have you been able to judge the impact, yet?”

  “Impact?” Curt asked, surprised.

  “Yes, financially.”

  “Not as of yet,” Shottier said.

  “Usually, when something that bizarre occurs, followed by even more peculiar events, tourism will increase dramatically.”

  “More peculiar events?” Curt was incensed. “You mean the three people in attendance who have accidentally died since then? That’s not peculiar, Ms. Falco, it’s coincidental, and it’s disturbing to even address in this forum.”

  Sherri turned to Curt and for the first time, he saw forgiving eyes. “I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. I was simply stating a fact.”

  “You’re not suggesting we use these events are you, Ms. Falco?” Chaps asked.

  Sherri held up her hands. “Not at all, but from what I understand, it was a remarkable discovery: a room sealed for centuries, correct? We may be able to promote the historical aspect of the discovery. Certainly I would never propose focusing on the accidental deaths, but the discovery itself is certainly a draw.”

  Shottier pointed to Curt. “Ask him. He was one of the first ones inside.”

  Sherri turned and looked to Curt. “We’re going to need to talk.” Then she looked to the others. “When I get the financial figures, I’ll advise a strategy. We’ll touch base at the end of the week if that’s acceptable. In the meantime, I have some homework. I’ll work with Mr. Lohan to get the necessary information.”

  The meeting adjourned shortly thereafter, and Curt remained behind in the conference room with Sherri.

  “Look,” she turned to him after everyone had left and the door was closed. “I was wrong. I know you were only trying to help Tina at the airport yesterday. Can we please let it go? We’re going to be working together.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “Are you really this immature?”

  “Are you sorry?” Curt repeated with a grin.

  “You were holding my daughter’s hand; a strange man in an airport holding my daughter’s hand. How should I have reacted?”

  “You’re taking a hell of a risk they’ll break the contract with your firm by telling them Melbourne won’t detract from their tourism income until far into the future, if at all.”

  “It’s the truth. Again, if the estimates show Melbourne taking significant revenue away, that opinion will be revised, but I don’t see it happening. There are too many things to do and see in St. Augustine: fishing in the bay, the Castillo, the old cemeteries, the lighthouse, the countless shops, restaurants, and inns.”

  “Are you sorry?” Curt went back to the question.

  “You’re unreal.” She momentarily turned away, then slowly spun back to face him. Her face betrayed a mixture of anger and hurt. “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Sherri sighed. “When Tina was four years old she was abducted at a grocery store. My husband and I were lucky it wasn’t by some child molester; instead it was for ransom money, but even complying with their demands, she was their victim for nearly 72 hours. I honestly thought I’d never see my baby alive again. It was miraculous she was returned at all, and the police never caught the people who did it. Every night,” her composure was disintegrating, “and I mean every single night since then, I have a nightmare that someone has abducted Tina, and I will never see her again.” Sherri dropped her head, cupping her face in her hands.

  Curt felt like crap. “I....I....don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  “Gotcha.” She raised her face and gave him a victorious smile. “Oh, I need your business card, please.”

  Curt was momentarily stunned. Then, even if he had tried, the grin that erupted would not be dislodged. “I don’t have one. I’m an archaeologist.”

  “How ‘bout your cell phone number?”

  “You already have it. Remember I called you yesterday when I found out I had your suitca—”

  “Oh. Um...I deleted it.”

  “Of course you did.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Monday, August 15, 9:01 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  Less than eight hours ago, Curt had awoken Marvin Sellon and recounted the Bolivian monk’s story. Even half asleep, Marvin had been unable to suppress a laugh. Still, he had to admit to a sliver of fascination. It was a highly inventive story, and neither could figure out the monk’s motivation for constructing such a lie. When Curt added in his revelation after analyzing the audio of the events from the Castillo the day Subject X appeared, he had little trouble convincing Marvin it was worth researching further.

  Curt requested that Marvin pursue the results of Subject X’s autopsy. The professor was well connected in St. Augustine, but the authorities had been tight-lipped since the incident in July. Marvin was not sure he would have any success, but he knew the best place to start.

  Assistant Coroner, Dr. Massey Burke, had been in town less than a year. Professor Sellon had met her at a social function for a benefit held at the Lightner Museum in January. Despite being at least ten years Marvin’s junior, the two had quite a lot in common, and they had spoken on several occasions. Massey seemed to have a certain fascination with Marvin’s calling as a physical anthropologist and former college faculty member at Florida State University. Conversely, he found her profession just as intriguing.

  A phone call confirmed she was in the office and available. She agreed to meet him at City Perks Coffee Company, a small coffee shop at the north end of historic St. George Street not far from the Castillo de San Marcos. The unspoken agreement was that this was a platonic sharing of coffee and conversation. As soon as she arrived, he planned to come clean. She was highly intelligent, and any attempt to get information through trickery would be an insult. A direct approach was his only chance. Some of the bizarre information Curt had shared with him yesterday would be his bargaining chip.

  When Marvin arrived, throngs of tourists were already ambling up and down the pedestrian-only street. It was a sunny morning, and the heat would soon dominate the street. Marvin purchased two cups of coffee inside and then brought them outside to a small café table in the shade of the building’s awning. Within minutes, Massey Burke arrived, smiling.

  Marvin rose to greet her. “Good to see you again, Dr. Burke,” he said, shaking her hand as she too
k a seat. The woman was tiny, with shoulder-length, black hair streaked with wisps of grey, and a button nose.

  “Pleased to see you again, as well, Dr. Sellon, and thanks for the coffee,” she replied with a gracious nod. “So how have you been?”

  Marvin leaned in conspiratorially. “Good, but I have to confess that I asked you here on a pretense. This is where our two professions cross.”

  She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head with an intrigued gaze. “Do tell.”

  “Dr. Curt Lohan, a local archaeologist, has been following up on the discovery of the gunpowder magazine in the Castillo last month. As you’re well aware, the autopsy results have still not been made public nor has the man’s identity been released.”

  Massey stiffened. She leaned back and sighed. It was obvious she was not enamored with the topic. She crossed her arms in a defiant pose. “I can’t discuss this with you, Marvin.”

  “Nor would I ask you to, but Curt was contacted by a man in Bolivia who has made a preposterous claim as to who the man is....or should I say, was.”

  “Bolivia?”

  Marvin nodded, taking a sip of coffee, temporarily unable to speak. It was a staged pause to allow the word to seep in. He was rewarded with an inquisitive stare.

  “Who is this man, and what did he say?”

  Marvin leaned back. “Sorry, I swore my secrecy on the matter.”

  Dr. Burke, clearly still annoyed with where the conversation was heading, replied, “You know, this could be considered withholding evidence.”

  “Withholding evidence? For what crime? A police officer killed the man, and unless you’ve figured out the man’s magician-like tactics for getting inside the gunpowder magazine, then I don’t believe there’s been a crime other than assault with his fingernails, and justice was served rather swiftly.” His tone was direct but not confrontational.

  Massey was silent a moment as she seemed to consider his words. Then she smiled. “If anything I mention to you winds up in the press, I’ll have you arrested.”